My white night was mostly pink.

Nuit Blanche.

So...I was lucky enough to get a ride from Guelph to Kipling Station with some friends (thank you, Nathan!). I was also lucky to have some pals, Jon and Paul, willing to have me stay at their place in the city. After making dinner (yay for fall veggies--spaghetti squash! kale!) we headed out to take everything in...or at least as much of it as we could handle.

The first thing we saw was on our way downtown: poets and animators collaborated to create Words Travel Fast, poetry and visuals taking over the screens at TTC stations across the city. I was totally excited when I heard about this project--I am one of those strange people with an aversion to televisions, and was somewhat enraged when those screens first went in. Somehow, no matter how much I don't want to watch TV, whenever one is on in a room it lures my eyes and my attention, and leaves me feeling bitter. So, if I'm going to be watching something, it may as well be somewhat edifying or creative. I was, however, disappointed with the project, which I will explain.
Three Toronto-based poets/authors (Emily Pohl-Weary, Emily Schultz, and Zoe Whittall) teamed up with animators ( Franco Barroeta, Emma Lopez and Karen Richardson) to create "motion poems." The works themselves I quite enjoyed--poems based on the urban experience coupled with visual interpretations or associations played across the screens. Each motion poem was quite a different style--some visuals were quite literal (as in Pohl-Weary's My Gold Hair is So Unreliable, set to computer animated scenes by Emma Lopez), which I enjoyed less than those that were more playful and whimsical. I believe it was a poem by Emily Schultz that was done as if following an artist/poet's hand across a page, writing and illustrating with doodle-like drawings the poetry, zooming out at the end to show a mural of words and drawings (I unfortunately missed the credits, as I caught the subway train). I enjoyed this appropriation of public space, usually coopted by advertising, and felt that the poetry that was used was accessible and engaging (not the sort of thing that leaves a reader feeling left out or stupid), and the animated components generally added to the pieces. Where my disappointment comes in is that I don't feel like it went far enough--there was this lovely intention of having artwork where where one is usually accosted with garbage, yet there were long long pauses between poems where the screen was filled with all sorts of logos of corporate sponsors and the Scotiabank Nuit Blanche animated logo nonsense. I wasn't fooled, and I don't know who was. Actually, I feel that maintaining the usual format of moving pictures punctuated by advertising and logos, and the scroll line at the bottom is more likely to encourage frequent TTC riders stay in their protective stupor, and miss out on an opportunity to be greeted by an unusually friendly, playful and sensitive gesture. In fact, I didn't see anyone else paying attention to the screens. Maybe a sound component is in order. Hmmm...

Words Travel Fast at Broadview Station.

Still traveling...

We got out at St. George, with hopes to catch some of what was going on at the U of T campus--perhaps check out Night School at Hart House (mostly because I was really wanting to dance with a teacher), or the intergalactic miracle happenings at Kings College Circle. Alas, none of this really ended up happening. We saw the fringes of the miracle (below) and the doorway to Night School, and kept on going, because somehow time had slipped away, and I had plans to meet my pal Christina at the Textile Museum. During out jaunt, we saw what I mistakenly thought were crowds of people ("crowds" is a relative term, I've realized, which should be used to describe what I came across later on in the night), heard lots of noises, and saw lots more smiles than can usually be found downtown. Jon commented on the fact that in this context we could likely do just about any bizarre thing and draw an audience who would assume that it was art and that what we were doing was legitimate. We unfortunately did not test this theory.

The intergalactic miracle (Event Horizon, by Jennifer Marman and Daniel Borins) from a distance. It was pretty neat to see the space so transformed and in such a different context.


Paul (left) and Jon as the three of us traipsed across the St. George Campus.

The next bit of the evening was kind of interesting. Due to the fact that (a) we were late to meet Christina, and (b) I have a herniated disc (which equals pain plus limited mobility), I decided to take the subway just one stop from Queen's Park to St Patrick, and meet everyone at the Textile Museum, figuring that Jon and Paul would likely get there first anyhow. The subway took forever (I was very seriously considering lying down on the platform--anyone with low back issues would understand this strong urge), and when I got to the museum, there was no one I recognized. By 9:30pm (half an hour after we were to meet), I was considering the very real possibility of spending the rest of Nuit Blanche on my own. I'll be honest--this scared me a little. I was starting to feel more comfortable with this prospect when Christina came (yay!), with her friends Emily and Warren in tow. We went inside, figuring that Jon and Paul had found something more interesting to do, and knowing I had a spare set of keys, were confident in my capability to navigate the city.
(This, sadly, was not at all the case. I'm not sure why, but they were under the impression that I was meeting Christina first at the Greyhound station, and arriving in the area early, went there first. Then proceeded to walk all over the place in search of Centre Avenue. Jon must have just missed us--he finally found the museum at 9:45pm, and waited until 10pm, when he went inside to see if we were there. We were just leaving at that time, and yet somehow didn't cross paths. Shucks.)

So...in we went to see two things: Allyson Mitchell's Hungry Purse: vagina dentate in late capitalism and Swap 'til You Drop, a collective endeavor with Allyson Mitchell.

The pink-swathed entrance of Hungry Purse. Perhaps more than slightly vaginal in nature.

Emily checking out the vagina dentata. I really enjoyed seeing people brush past the macramé-like hanging thingo as they entered. It hit almost everyones head. I am curious as to what purpose it served in its previous lifetime.


The artist in conversation with a curious viewer.

Christina taking a break inside the installation, consulting her brochure as we try to plan our route while taking advantage of a comfy place to sit (or lie down).


Other visitors also taking advantage of the comfy-ness of cushions and shag carpeting. Overheard conversation: "it's like a portal..." "yeah, a portal..." "do we stay in, or go out?" It seemed like most everyone wanted to stay in, or keep returning.

Allyson Mitchell's piece was made almost entirely of recycled materials, a lot of them the sort of things one would expect to find at a church bazaar--crocheted afghans, toilet seat covers, cushions, fabric, and shag carpeting (perhaps not a bazaar item, but seems to fit with the theme). The installation consisted of a corridor draped with pink, leading to a cavernous room, the walls, floor and ceiling covered with soft, squishy pink things (the ceiling was covered with pink cushions, round crocheted toilet seat covers creeped up the wall in one corner, cushions lined the space where wall meets floor, and animal heads--taxidermist forms covered with pink fun fur--peeked out from equally pink walls. The entrance was a giant vagina.
The installation seemed to serve as a gathering chamber where those who were already up past their bedtime could lounge. I wonder if people feel comfortable enough to sit down and spend long periods of time inside the piece during regular museum hours. I tend to think that it was more a function of the night--one where the expectation is that art is created for the public to interact with--that accounted for the many lounging bodies, especially considering there was a giant pink vagina looming nearby.
Apparently, vagina dentate refers to an ancient archetype that warns men about the dangers of sex with women. I didn't know this when I saw the piece, but figured that dentate, sounding like 'dentist,' had something to do with teeth, and so had ominous overtones. The space didn't seem to cause anxiety for most visitors, as the description warns. It was, however, somewhat overwhelming in the amount of stuff that it was made of...especially since it seems like stuff that was saved from filling a landfill somewhere, stuff that filled about 37 grandmother's living rooms all contained in one small space, stuff that there is a whole lot more of. And I think that this is where the piece speaks to consumption and craft, the balance between comfort and overwhelm in the accumulation and production of things. That this overwhelm cast in an over-the-top femininity was interesting, perhaps suggestive of collective fears of consumptive/destructive aspects of the feminine. The fact that it took up a whole room, surrounded and enveloped the viewer, and physically mirrors female anatomy, adds to this sense overwhelm and brings up issues of space and women--how much to take up, how powerful to be, how much to consume. Those are my musings...

In the next room was Swap 'til You Drop, the clothing swap that, next to seeing a giant vagina, was what Christina and I were looking forward to. The room, normally an interactive teaching space in the museum, was filled with several large tables that were in turn filled with clothing. There was also a coat rack filled with articles of clothing from bygone eras. People were encouraged to bring clothing to give away, and to take what they wanted. I donated to the cause a black polka-dotted one piece skort outfit that has a yellow hankercheif sewn to it so that it emerges from a fake breast pocket. It is one of those things that seems like it could be fun to wear, but never enough to make me wear it. Christinia and I joined bunches of excited people in picking through piles of colorful clothing and trying it on. Nearby were experts sitting at sewing machines, willing to help swappers alter their finds. The whole atmosphere was quite excited and happy. Strangers talked to each other! (This seemed to happen throughout the evening, and was pretty refreshing.) One lady commented on how great the pink skirt that was once hers looked on me, Christina found a girl with a bag full of clothes to donate who was about her size, and made friends. The one danger, we learned, was finding something that made our hearts sing, to realize that it belonged to someone who had taken their puffy pink vest off while trying on jackets. Darn.
The strength of this piece seemed to be the sense of community and camaraderie it fostered between attendees. It didn't feel like "Art," it felt like going through your friend's closet, or grandmother's basement. It felt like something that anyone can partake in and be satisfied. I also made associations with the anti capitalist message of things like "Buy Nothing Day," and the all-bodies-are-good-bodies message of the clothing swaps organized by "Pretty, Porky, and Pissed Off," a fat activist performance troupe that Mitchell was once a part of. I also think of a kind of gift economy of giving and receiving, and the joy that can be had in seeing one's garbage become another's treasure. I imagine these were considerations that the artists/facilitators were thinking of, but I think that what swappers mostly walked away with was a refreshing feeling as a result of being able to connect with a bunch of other people of a bunch of ages, while finding some fun (and free!) stuff.

A swapper perusing the coat rack for finds.

A table full of finds...notice the polka dots?

Christina trying on pants.

So...we dragged our (already!) tired bodies out of the museum and headed off in search of Laura Belém's piece . We got off at St. George and headed towards Cumberland, where we encountered a copious number of people. It was a crowd of gigantic proportions, which made me feel quite overwhelmed and disoriented. I actually really just wanted to go home and sleep. But I persevered. The upside--it was like a pedestrian Critical Mass--by sheer number people had priority over cars. It felt really great to take over the streets that way. Also amazing: the line that went several blocks (and around 2 corners!) of folks wanting to see the piece in the Lower Bay subway station, and the almost (but not quite) as impressive line outside Starbucks.

It's was hard to get a sense of it with my camera, but the crowd was really, really, really huge. Really.


The line ups outside of coffee shops were pretty astounding (this is only part of the one that snaked outside of the Starbucks on Cumberland near Avenue road). I figure that the collective caffeine intake of Torontonians on September 29, 2007 was through the roof.

We did finally find Belém's installation. The street was cordoned off, and the piece itself was about a block long. The length of the piece had blue star-covered banners hanging above it, blowing gently in the wind. It was lit with strong theater-type lighting on tripods, and there were also speakers on tripods playing a long loop of tape. These three elements defined the space, and created a kind of other world. The sound loop included sounds of fireworks, a person whistling, and traditional Brazilian music with strong rhythms that made Christina and I dance as we walked. Apparently the night of Saint John is celebrated festival-style in rural Brazil, elements of it being transposed here to a Toronto street. I found that the whole thing had a real (and surprising) sense of spaciousness about it. I think that the volume of the sound really helped achieve this, as well as the height and weightless quality of the banners that emphasized the huge space that was the sky above us. I did feel kind of transported. The music, for me, was very evocative of visual imagery--I found myself imagining other elements that were implied, but not in the space (fireworks, dancers...). Somehow, despite the crowds and the fact that there were bright storefronts on either side of me, I wasn't really noticing these things. I was instead in a place where there was room to breathe. And be curious. And peaceful. Interestingly, people seemed to mostly walk through the space. Not many folks stood stationary in it, or danced, or took it in by spending much time there. It seemed to be something taken in by people in transit, which was the case for us as well. But I found it to be a bit of magic.

Laura Belém's, Noite de São João on Cumerland between Bay and Younge.

Nearby was the Toronto Reference Library, and Christina's friend had a piece there. However, we didn't get in the door for some time--outside was a group, "Drummers in Exile," drumming with a large bunch of people enjoying their music. There were about six percussionists on djembe, shakers, and other various rhythm-making tools improvising for whoever was willing to listen. We were willing to listen, but it was impossible to do so without dancing, so I followed Christina's lead, and started cutting up the proverbial rug. It was great--within a few minutes a friend, who I rarely have the pleasure of seeing, ran over and gave me a great hug and started dancing, too. Then a stranger inched her way over and danced as well--tentatively at first, than confidently later. And more and more followed until we had at least twenty people totally enjoying themselves in this spontaneous flinging of limbs, and tearing off of sweaters, scarves and shirts (we got hot fast). It was great for a bunch of reasons: (a) we were outside the Toronto Reference library. Sure, libraries can be fun, but not usually this much fun, (b) most of us didn't know each other, and yet were smiling, dancing together, introducing ourselves, really acknowledging and enjoying each others presence, (c) it was completely unplanned and unintended...just a happening as a result of people coming together. A kind of spontaneous community. Yay! It also had the terrific side effect of waking us up (due to the endorphin factor), and the terrible side effect of making me feel like I needed to lie down for an eternity to recover (due to the back pain factor).
Christina assures me that this was her favorite part of the evening (not the back pain, but the dancing).

Drummers in Exile performing outside the Toronto Reference Library.

The beginnings of the spontaneous dance party! Jennifer, Christina, and once stranger, now dancing friend, Heather.

More dancing!

So I did lie down. There happen to be benches just inside the library, so I hung out there while the others looked around. I met Joe, the editor of Fibre Quarterly, who came in to get a coffee (shorter line), and bemoan the removal of the textile based sculpture that used to adorn the library lobby. I was again struck by the relative ease strangers seemed to have with each other for this one night. I took a picture of the lights and water in the lobby, because I lay staring at it for a long long time as I waited, and wondered for a long long time if it was a Nuit Blanche installation, or what lobby of the Toronto Reference Library always looks like. No one I asked seemed to know.

The view from the bench where I lay in lobby of the Toronto Reference Library. The lights reminded me of the scanner thingy they used to use at my high school library. And yes, even art students don't always know art when they smell it.

So...although I was enlivened from dancing, and in a bit less pain from lying down, my goal was to be in bed as soon as possible. My other goal, which was a key factor in determining my bedtime, was to see Femmebomb, the piece that I'd been helping Janet with, and had so far only seen in pieces laid out in the park or studio.

Femmebomb is a garishly pink textile facade that was made to cover the public health building on Queen W. at Lisgar. As I described earlier (see my first post), its first incarnation was born out of Janet's residency at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. It's made out of many meters of pink fabric, snow fencing woven with gigantic ribbon-like strips of material, crocheted flowers, spray-painted house wrap, styrofoam buttons, industrial velcro, zip ties and safety pins. The general idea: to completely explode, overstate and air out the stereotype of the site as a female-dominated space. I think it also challenges notions and definitions of femininity with its over-the-top pinkness and excessiveness. As my dad said on my answering machine, "It's quite impressive: very big, very pink, very.............feminine." (I think that you had to hear it to hear how funny it sounded.) My experience of it was interesting--it was recognizable (I pinned those! I cut that! I help sew that seam!), and at the same time it was something completely different. To see it all put together was to see something else entirely. Contributing to this was the lighting--Janet persuaded the city to look into lighting it from the rooftop across the street, which they did with fabulous results. It literally glowed, like some cheerful pink beacon. The roof was terrific--the Owens Corning logos were obliterated by a combination of Janet's spray painted flowers, the lighting and the distance. Another contributing factor--the crowds. People were gathering around it, going up to touch the flowers, staring and talking. I overheard several people say Janet's name. I found myself wanting to tell them that yes, she is a prominent, talented, successful artist--and she also smiles, breathes, and takes bathroom brakes! Not to mention the fact that she makes great tabbouleh, and is fun to talk to (I happen to be privy to this information). I find myself thinking these things because it's pretty easy to forget that people I look up to happen to be people too (sure, they are pretty awesome people, but people none the less). Working with Janet reminded me of that. I find it refreshing.
Back to Femmebomb and what made it seem to come together: details like the pink fabric sewn to lamp posts and railings. And the sheer scale of it. What I think made it especially successful is that it made people notice the presence of a building that has been there for over a hundred years, but is quite forgettable. Janet and I both didn't know of its existence before this project, yet we had both walked by it many many times. Now I think it will have quite a different life in the memories of those who got to see the piece, or who will see images of it. Nifty stuff.

Me, at Femmebomb. I tried to be as pink as I could.

Femmebomb, as viewed from across the street. It's hard to see here, but the roof looked great. Six cans of spray paint = a very flowery roof.

So, next I gleefully headed home to Jon and Paul's apartment. I had had so much excitement built around the nights festivities, but my body didn't want to have anything more to do with it. On the way home I talked with/listened to another stranger for a long long time (about strawberry shortcake, the Drake Hotel, and her comfy boots), and very nearly fell asleep standing up on the subway. I was in bed by 1:00am or so.
The next morning Paul and his friend Sean got in (by climbing through the window--Paul forgot his keys) as I was getting up. They made it through the whole event and then some. Jon had come home after the Textile Museum conundrum (on the way he said he took one look at the line up for the ghost bus station and got back on the subway). Still, we were both pretty tired. It was really nice to have a very slow, lazy Sunday. It felt like a bit of a holiday. We wondered if the whole city would be sleepy, but on a meandering walk we came across a street party on Foulton that included a docile dog named Rowdy and also featured a gigantic checkerboard fashioned out of sidewalk chalk and recycling bins (grey vs. blue). I half wanted to stay and play. We ended up taking books and lunch to a park, where there were bunches of kids and families, but still lots of space to sprawl out and read, feel the sun and smell the leaves.

A lazy afternoon in the park.

I kind of wanted to stay in the park forever, but didn't. Due to problems with the Greyhound (the bus being behind schedule, and having shocks that didn't work), I didn't get back to Guelph until relatively late. I was surprised to find my house mate Ben still working on his latest endeavor--completing renovations on the bathroom. He had wanted to go to Nuit Blanche, but against his better judgment, went to Canada's Wonderland instead to celebrate his friend James' birthday. In the end, he said it was actually a lot of fun to see his friends act like excited kids. Talking with them that day, he was surprised to hear how much his pals--definitely not the art crowd--knew of Nuit Blanche. And I figure that that illustrates the genius of Nuit Blanche, because when else does art have such mass appeal? When else is art that cool? The all-night element gives it a definite allure, and contributes to the carnivalesque atmosphere of it--everything turned on its head (after all, at what other time do pedestrians rule the streets by sheer majority; strangers acknowledge each other; and people witness and participate in unusual happenings with delight and abandon?). The sheer scale of Nuit Blanche makes it seem like something one should be involved in, if only to be part of the conversation afterward, and the fact that it is free makes it all the more accessible.
Accessible--contemporary art, accessible?
Who would have thought.

Ben, the pained look on his face due to missing Nuit Blanche.
(And having to tile the bathroom floor.)
Poor fellow.